


Everything we never seem to say

by yourbucky221B



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A little, Angst, For Anna's birthday, Happy Ending, John being oblivious, M/M, Pining, Post - HLV, Romance, Sadness, Series 3 compliant, Sexual Tension, Sherlock just pining, mainly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourbucky221B/pseuds/yourbucky221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Sherlock realised that he reasoned John would wait because, he knew that if their roles were reversed, he would have waited his whole life for John Watson.'</p><p>An angsty pininglock fic as a birthday present for Anna.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything we never seem to say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyone/gifts).



> So that amazing and wonderful friend of mine, Anna, had a birthday yesterday and I wrote this as a present for her. She is the Queen of Johnlock angst, so hopefully she likes this! It took me about two days to write this and now I'm exhausted and am committing myself to my next Viclock fic for a while now. 
> 
> I would also love to thank Tanya for reading over this and checking for mistakes etc. before I posted it. Thank you for reading this very long fic so quickly! 
> 
> Happy Birthday Anna!

   Running. Always running.

   No matter what happened when you were with Sherlock Holmes, running was something which seemed to hook itself on for the ride. You could be on the simplest of cases and at some point you would find yourself sprinting across London town. As you twist and turn down alleyways, feet pounding on the ground to keep up with the flying fabric in front of you. Sometimes you feel as though if you blink, or look away for too long it will disappear. Like smoke.

   Sometimes that was how John Watson felt when around Sherlock Holmes. That if he didn’t pay attention, if he didn’t keep an eye on him at all time, he would vanish. Like he was just a figment of his imagination. Because Sherlock Holmes was amazing, brilliant, fantastic, so charismatic and intelligent that it was hard to believe he’d seen this man sulking in his pyjamas at two in the afternoon. Moaning that he wanted tea, and then complaining when John didn’t move immediately to make some. It was hard to believe that he’d seen the man lose his composure, just once or twice. Like the big reveal in an Agatha Christie book, or when the curtains are pulled back to show the Magician’s trick, that’s what it was like.

   Just a peek at Sherlock Holmes without the mask.

   John always found it astonishing to see how human he was sometimes. He wasn’t surprised, he knew that somewhere in that mind and body, that Sherlock Holmes had a heart. Metaphorical and physical. But sometimes Sherlock still found ways to make him look twice.

  John sat back in the chair and pursed his lips, “So, this woman was what? Using her friends’ weaknesses, to blackmail them?”

   Sherlock continued pacing back and forth across the rug, “Yes and no. It wasn’t so threatening. She was exploiting their faults to her benefit, getting things out of them. Making them do things because she knew just what to say to push them. To make them feel guilty, and it’s gone too far. She pushed one of them to the edge and they fought back and now…” He stopped pacing.

   “She’s dead.”

   “Exactly. She didn’t think it would backfire, she’s manipulative so she thought she could get herself out of anything. But not this time. One of the ten on the list killed her, either in self-defence or retaliation, not that I blame them, and I have a feeling it was one of the women on the list.”

   “Hang on, ‘not that I blame them’?” John’s brow furrowed, “Are you… are you supporting the killer?”

   Sherlock turned and looked at John quizzically, “Supporting? No. Of course not. They killed someone. Murdered someone. I’m merely saying that their motive, their situation warrants them understanding, in some sense.”

   Then he saw it, the crack as Sherlock Holmes revealed he was in fact human and not a super human genius. The slip of the mask. The softening of the eyes, the gentle pout of his lips, the way his shoulders drooped slightly, even with his hands on his hips. He looked vulnerable.

   “You sympathise with them?” There wasn’t any shock in John’s voice. Just admiration.

   Then it clipped back into place and that was that. One minute. One minute into the heart of Sherlock Holmes.

   “Yes… well. Enough of that. Let’s narrow that list down.” And with a gruff clearing of his throat Sherlock made it known the subject wasn’t to be broached again.   

   John had accepted the fact that Sherlock wasn’t good with emotions. That he didn’t feel things the same way that everyone else did. There lay their first problem.

   Because Sherlock thought that John knew that he _was_ capable of emotions. He knew himself that he was. Even if he tried his best to conceal this fact from the outside world. At one point in his life he had made it a secret, hidden his emotions because the last time he’d shown the world how he’d felt, it had resulted in a heartbreak which led on to the darkest days of Sherlock’s life. But Sherlock didn’t like thinking about Victor Trevor.

  But since that first meeting with John, he had felt everything he’d built to keep check on his feelings just slip. Just an inch or two. He didn’t know why he’d let it happen. Sherlock saw it no other way, he had _let_ it happen. For some reason he had let the walls slip for John Watson, and now day by day, a little more slipped away. He let John in a little more. The wonderful, brave, army doctor who killed a man for him on their very first case together.

   Sherlock didn’t read the signs as anything at first. So what if he was allowing John to see that, yes, he was a genius and focused on his work the majority of the time, but that he could do emotions. He didn’t like it though; emotions were messy and they ate away at you if they weren’t reciprocated and… well, that was exactly how Sherlock Holmes discovered he felt when John Watson, his friend, his only friend…

   He’d left John for two years. Did he really expect him to wait for him? It was unreasonable to think John would put his life on hold long enough for Sherlock to take down Moriarty’s network. Wasn’t it? Mycroft had thought so. Sherlock also knew that it was irrational to think he would. John thought Sherlock was dead. Why wouldn’t he move on?

   Sherlock realised that he reasoned John would wait because, he knew that if their roles were reversed, he would have waited his whole life for John Watson.

   He could feel the wall sliding again. Slipping down with more force than before. It wasn’t like before, where it chipped away slowly, this time it was tumbling down, large pieces crashing around him as Sherlock realised that he would have waited.  He would have waited because his life, his world revolved around John.

   His life may have revolved around John’s, but Sherlock had made the mistake of thinking John’s revolved around Sherlock.

   So Sherlock sat in his armchair, the piece of expensive card in his hands as he realised that maybe he wasn’t above it all. He wasn’t above emotions. Above feeling. Above sentiment. That John had burrowed himself into Sherlock’s life and made it impossible for him to go back to a time without John.

_Request the pleasure of your company at their marriage_

   Something which shouldn’t have surprised Sherlock. Everyone got married. People wanting to affirm relationships or make sure everyone knew that that person was now theirs. He never understood really. It was stupid. A massive ceremony. Masses of people who you probably only spoke to once or twice a year. Family you didn’t like. It was ridiculous really.

   It shouldn’t have surprised him. But it did. Because this was John.

   This was John Hamish Watson, his friend, his only friend, leaving the life they’d shared with murders and thefts and blackmails, running down streets and corridors, then collapsing in their armchairs and giggling about the day, drinking tea and smiling at each other.

   Sherlock had taken everything for granted. He’d never have thought that their days in 221b together were numbered. It never occurred to Sherlock that John might want to get married and settle down, especially when you took into consideration the facts about the life he had previously led and the one he then led with Sherlock. The danger, the adrenaline. Something a marriage and a little house in the suburbs wouldn’t provide you with.

   Sherlock could provide it. He could provide John with this. But John obviously craved something more, something he didn’t think Sherlock was able to provide him with. Something Sherlock didn’t think he could provide either.

   He wondered then, he tried to look back and place the exact moment he had fallen for John Watson. There was no other way to look at it. It was going around in his head with no other explanation available. Sherlock Holmes had developed feelings. Something he’d tried to refrain from doing, especially after Victor. Feelings weren’t rational. They confused everything. They made everything messy and Sherlock suddenly understood the ache that he’d carried since he’d seen John with Mary.

   He was in love with John Watson.

 

* * *

 

   “It’s freezing!” John complained as they clambered over another wall and landed in a pile of snow, “How is it March and still snowing?”

   Sherlock didn’t look at him but stood rooted the spot as he surveyed the snow in front of them, looking for footprints, “Global warming. You watch enough television to know that.”

   “I thought it was meant to make things warmer, not colder.” John muttered, rubbing his gloveless hands together.

   The next thing he knew he was being handed a pair of leather gloves. John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, surprised. He looked back down at Sherlock’s outstretched hand, the gloves held between his fingers and thumb, and stared.

   “Don’t want you losing a finger in this weather.” Sherlock explained, feeling his throat tighten as John looked back at his face.

   John took them without another word, sliding his frozen hands into the too big gloves. They were astonishingly warm. John didn’t know why, but he assumed Sherlock’s hands were as cold as they were pale. He reasoned that it was because of how focused Sherlock was about everything, cold hard facts and everything else. But the gloves were warm, so warm, almost scorching his frozen flesh and he tightened his hands into fists. He felt a warmth in his chest as well. Sentiment as Sherlock would say.

   They didn’t get any further that night. The wind was blowing the snow all around them, covering footprints and freezing them to the bone. They had started to retreat back to the warmth of Baker Street when a shot rang out from above them and John was thrown to the floor by the weight of Sherlock’s body pressed over his.

   “What the hell was that?” John shouted, deciding to wait for Sherlock to move off of him. For a moment Sherlock didn’t move at all and then with a wince he lifted his weight to let John slide out before collapsing back into the snow. “Sherlock?”

   “Can you…ah… help me up?” Sherlock winced from his place in the melting snow.

   John’s heart stuttered dangerously as he caught on to what must have happened. He felt panic well up in his throat and he took a breath to calm himself, “Oh, God. You got shot. Where? Show me. Quickly.”

   Sherlock let out a tiresome breath, “Calm down, John. For god’s sake. I just twisted my arm when I landed. The bullet missed us both.”

   John relaxed and clambered up from the floor to help Sherlock, hauling him up off the floor, an arm wrapped around his waist while the other supported the arm he was nursing. He quickly set about assessing the damage. Hands probing at the joints until Sherlock winced when John moved to his wrist. Typical.

   “I think you’ve sprained your wrist, unfortunately for you it’s your right one.” John murmured while carefully holding Sherlock’s hand and moving the wrist slowly.

   Sherlock didn’t groan or come up with a witty reply; he simply stared at his hand in John’s much smaller one. Felt how strong and firm those hands were as they turned his hand so carefully, so gently, yet his hands weren’t soft. They were slightly rough, tough. Doctor’s hands. He couldn’t help but lean closer, his head so close to John’s.

   “I think you’ll survive…” John announced, turning to look at him only to be surprised at the proximity of Sherlock’s face.

   They didn’t move an inch; their eyes were locked with the others and John realised he didn’t feel so cold anymore, because Sherlock’s gaze was like fire. His eyes burning, blazing into his. He didn’t know what to do, but he did know he didn’t want to move. That was when John Watson found himself utterly confused by Sherlock Holmes, because never before had anything like this happened. But Sherlock was looking at him in a way which had his throat tightening and his chest heaving. He felt like he was being ravaged by him. John flexed his hand, the one cradling Sherlock’s, and felt his fingers curl around the edge of John’s palm.

   Then a small piece of snow landed in Sherlock’s eyelashes resulting in the detective blinking rapidly to dislodge it.

   John broke the haze with a stuttered chuckle, a fond smile stretching across his face. Sherlock looked back down at John, his eyes soft and playful, his mouth twitching slightly at the sight of John’s smile. John let go of Sherlock’s hand slowly and looked down and then away, clearing his throat roughly before straightening his back.

   “We should get back so I can bandage your wrist.” John turned to look down the alley and then back at Sherlock who hadn’t moved an inch.

   “Hmm? Yes, yes. You’re right.” Sherlock slid his hands into his pocket, wary on his injured wrist and started down the alley towards the street, “Come along, John.”

 

* * *

 

   “Sherlock! Keep it down would you, dear?” Mrs Hudson wanders back out onto the landing after that, her footsteps on the stairs muffled by her slippers.

   With a slow, even breath, Sherlock lowers his violin, letting it dangle from his hand as he stares at the darkened sky outside. In two hours’ time it would be the eighteenth of May.

   John and Mary’s wedding day.

   Sherlock had been trying to get the day here quicker, get it over and done with, so that it didn’t scare him anymore, because, God, was he scared. He’d never been this scared before. He’d been scared as a child about a numerous amount of things which as he grew up he reasoned as irrational. He’d been scared when Victor told him they needed to talk. He’d been scared when he had gotten so high he’d actually gotten lost in London. He’d been scared when he’d seen John strapped up with explosives. He’d been scared when he’d witnessed the Hound in Dewer’s Hollow. He’d been scared when he jumped off Bart’s and he’d been scared for two years wondering if he was ever going to make it back to Baker Street alive.

   But at the prospect of John Watson getting married?

   He was terrified.

   Or maybe it was at the prospect that John Watson was saying goodbye to Baker Street forever.

   It would never be his home again.

   He would never wake and stumble down the stairs to make tea for them again.

   He would never sit in his chair, laptop in his lap as he typed up their cases.

   He would probably rarely come on a case again. He’d have Mary to look after. He’d have a life to live with her. Not Sherlock.

   That was probably what scared Sherlock the most.

   That John Watson would no longer share his life with Sherlock Holmes.

   Sherlock moved to place his violin down on the desk beside him, carefully laying the bow next to it before pulling the heavy curtains closed on the window. He didn’t want to see the world darken and then lighten for the following day. He wanted to stay in this state of… well, nothing. He wanted to feel nothing. But that wasn’t an option.

   He remembered that freezing cold night where they’d run through the snow and been shot at. He remembered the feel of his hand in John’s sturdier ones. He remembered the tension, the heat of their gaze in the icy night. He remembered wanting John to do something. Anything.  Anything but move away from him. He remembered realising that being in love with John Watson and not having it reciprocated, hurt.

   But he knew it hurt even more to have John Watson get married to someone else.

   John had never brought up what happened in the alley when they got back to the flat. Sherlock had been sure he would and was prepared to act. But he hadn’t said a word about it. He had bandaged Sherlock’s wrist up – an action which had Sherlock staring at his hands again – and then left with a small goodbye and goodnight before catching a taxi back to his house with Mary.

   Sherlock never brought it up either. He would have if John had at least attempted to. But they both remained silent. Just as it had always gone on. The things they said and never said.

 

* * *

 

   Mrs Hudson brought him tea.

   It was late. Too late really. She should have gone straight to bed. She was probably exhausted after the wedding but she came up anyway, at thirteen minutes past twelve and poured him a cup of tea.

   He hadn’t moved from his chair for almost six hours. Not since he arrived home from the wedding. His tie was on a pile on the floor, as was his jacket and the white and purple corsage which had been pinned to his lapel was in his right hand. He was alternating from staring at it and John’s armchair.

   “Sherlock, dear?” Mrs Hudson queried her voice soft and sympathetic.

   “Yes?” He breathed as a reply.

   A small hand rested at the top of his head, before stroking some of his curls out of his face; it was a comforting gesture, something his mother did when she was worried about him. He heard the soft sigh leave Mrs Hudson’s mouth before she whispered, “I put extra sugar in your tea. I thought you might need it.”

   He managed a soft smile before she left, leaving the tray next to him. His hand tightened around the already wilting flowers and he gritted his teeth. Sherlock’s eyes focused on John’s chair before he let go of the corsage, letting it tumble, crushed, to the ground. His chest heaved, tight and so heavy. It was torture. It felt like he was being crushed, it was so heavy and he hated it. He hated how felt. It was horrible. It was pathetic. But he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop his face feeling hot and his cheeks tensing and his jaw locking as he tried not to feel, but failed.

   “Sentiment.” He scoffed to the open air, eyes wet as he clenched his hands into fists on the arms of the chair.

 

* * *

 

 

   “How’s it healing?” John wondered, sinking down into his armchair with a bounce.

   Sherlock looked up, distracted, “Oh, yeah, yeah. It’s fine. Scarring a little now. Healing.”

   John nodded and started looking around the room, in a way which he was supposed to look absent minded, but Sherlock knew better.

   “You’ve moved that –”

   “So, how’s Ma –”

   They met each other’s eyes with a start.

   “Maybe not best to get onto that topic,” John said with a quick raise of his eyebrows and rub of his lips.

   Sherlock nodded, “I suppose you’re right.”

   John looked at him properly then; his eyes assessing Sherlock like he would a patient, “Are you okay?”

   Sherlock nodded fervently, “Of course, I’m perfectly fine. It twinges a bit if I stretch too much but other than that fine, absolutely fine.”

   “I wasn’t asking about you physically.”

   “Oh.”

   “Exactly.”

   “I’m fine.”

   “Are you really?”

   “Yes.”

   “You were shot.”

   “I know this.”

   “By my – by Mary.”

   Sherlock straightened in his chair, “Do you think I have somehow developed amnesia? I know this, John. It doesn’t need to be repeated.”

   “I think it does, Sherlock.” John insisted, his voice taking on the hard tone of authority.

   With a heavy sigh Sherlock slumped in his chair, “Fine, John. Do tell me how I should be feeling over being shot by Mary?”

   John sounded exasperated now, “For god’s sake. No one is telling you how to feel. I just want to know how you feel about it all.”

   “I don’t feel about it. I don’t like thinking about it. I don’t want to think about it and I definitely don’t want to talk about it.”

   John stared at Sherlock, his eyes sad and full of something which Sherlock would probably have labelled as sentiment. Sherlock wanted to wipe it away. Get rid of it. He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to see John’s feelings towards him, in any form, because they weren’t the same as the one’s Sherlock harboured for John; and that’s what hurt the most.

   “My mother wants to invite everyone round for Christmas.” Sherlock announced suddenly, trying to change the topic, “Wants me home for Christmas and whatnot. She’s invited you and Mary.”

   John narrowed his eyes, “Your mum invited me and Mary to her house for Christmas?”

   Sherlock held his tongue. Technically, he’d told his mother to invite them. But John didn’t need to know that.

   Silence ensued. John studied Sherlock’s face while Sherlock pretended to study the wallpaper and the fireplace. Neither of them knew what to say. Neither of them knew if what they wanted to say was acceptable. It was almost torturous until John finally broke the silence.

   “You would tell me though?”

   Sherlock’s eyes moved over to John, who was leaning his elbows on his knees, “Hmm?”

   “If you weren’t alright? You’d tell me?”

   A steady gaze and a pause before, “Of course, John.” 

   A lie.

* * *

 

   A yawn escaped Sherlock’s mouth as he continued with his latest experiment, nobody knew what it was except for the fact there were now large scorch marks across the kitchen table. Something Mrs Hudson was certainly not pleased about, but she continued making him tea despite that.

   “Are you going to address my presence at all today, Sherlock?”

   Sherlock grumbled something under his breath and Mycroft sighed tiredly. He didn’t have the patience to deal with Sherlock today. He was only there because of their mother. She was fretting about Sherlock to no end nowadays. Ever since he ‘came back from the dead’. Then with the shooting and the whole Moriarty fiasco, Mummy Holmes’ concern for her youngest son had increased tenfold.

   “Really, Sherlock, I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here. I have a rather pressing case to address back at the office.” Mycroft explained with a bored sigh and look around the room, “However, mummy is fretting about you and she asked me to check on you. Again.”

   Sherlock grumbled again, this time it was something Mycroft could actually make sense of.

   “Would you have rather mummy dragged father up here just to check on you? Or will you just accept that fact that I am here and get this over and done with?” Mycroft stabbed his umbrella quite forcefully against the floor, causing Sherlock’s head to snap over to him in shock.

   “Fine.”

   With a shove of the chair and the click of the gas being turned off, Sherlock strode past Mycroft to his armchair before throwing himself into it. Mycroft’s brow raised in sync with his rolling eyes before he took his place in the empty armchair opposite Sherlock.

   “Are you going to sulk like a child, or can we have a proper conversation like the grown men we are?” With another raise of a brow and a purse of his lips, Mycroft got Sherlock to sit up properly in his chair.

   “Fine. Just cut to the chase, please. I have an experiment to continue.”

   “How are you?”

   “I’m perfectly fine, brother dear. How are you?”

   An exasperated sigh, “Less of the attitude, brother mine.”

   “Ugh, fine.” Sherlock relaxed and faced Mycroft again, “I’m coping.”

   At that rather truthful admission Mycroft’s composure dropped, and the concern he held for his baby brother coloured his expression.

   “Don’t, Mycroft. Don’t try to fix things. Don’t try to make me feel better. You know that failed when we were children. It’s not going to work now.”

   “John?”

   “Visits occasionally, he’s been arguing with Mary frequently. Sometimes he comes over to see Mrs Hudson if I’m out.”

   “Mary’s background is being looked into, thoroughly.”

   “Don’t upset John. He’s got enough to deal with.”

   Mycroft sighed loudly, “Sherlock, she is an ex assassin, CIA, freelance and who knows what else. She’s a danger to the country. That’s why she’s being investigated.”

   Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother.

   “Fine. And because you’re my little brother and she shot you.”

   “God, I hate it when you start with the whole brotherly affection thing.”

   Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair and then stared at the folded blanket on the floor which had resided over the back of John’s chair for so long. It was moments like these, when Sherlock hated to admit, that he missed John more than anything. He hated to admit that he wished John hadn’t been so easily persuaded to forgive Mary. But he did that. He kept hinting time and time again that John should put things behind them and work things out with Mary. He wanted John to be happy, and he’d been happy with Mary. He’d married her. She was obviously the person who made him happy.

   “Sherlock…” Mycroft’s tone was softer than usual and held all the vile sympathetic pity that Sherlock didn’t want.

   “Don’t, Mycroft.”

   He stood quickly but Mycroft beat him to it. Standing in front of him, umbrella in hand but his other hand hesitantly rose to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock didn’t flinch but he averted his brother’s gaze.

   “Tell him.”

   Then Mycroft left the flat. His footsteps fading until the door to the street slammed shut.

   Sherlock wanted to scream. Wanted to shout at every single thing in that room. He wanted to shout at everything in that room that John Watson had ever touched. He couldn’t handle it. He’d tried so hard but it was impossible. He needed to clear his mind, focus on something else, find something else in that godforsaken mind of his to hold his attention.

    He clutched his hands to the side of his head, fingers digging into his hair as he scrunched up his face in concentration, trying to find anything that would make him forget for a moment that John wasn’t there. Wasn’t with him. Wasn’t in love with him. Wasn’t his in any shape or form. That he’d never seen John get married. Never left him for two years. Never let John go through any amount of time without knowing that Sherlock loved him.

   “GOD!” Sherlock shouted in frustration, his hands shaking and pulling at his hair.

   He heard quick footsteps up the stairs and then Mrs Hudson walked in, her eyes frantic as she found Sherlock in the middle of the room, he looked defeated. Utterly defeated.

   “Sherlock, dear? What is it?”

   Sherlock was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. He let his arms fall limply to his side before he murmured, “I can’t make it go away. I want it to go away.”

   Mrs Hudson didn’t come to comfort him in any way, she hesitated in the doorway before saying softly, “I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve even got some of those biscuits you like. Or cake. I’ve got some coffee cake off of Mrs Turner. I’ll bring some of that up.”

   Sherlock nodded sullenly, his head hanging down as his eyes traced the pattern of the rug.

   

   He ate all the biscuits. The cake went as well. He drank five cups of tea on top of all that. He didn’t feel any better. Just fuller. He also needed to go to the bathroom. That was the tea. 

   “Knock, Knock.”

   Sherlock looked up from his chair and almost groaned out loud. This was ridiculous. Mrs Hudson probably called her.

   “Molly, what a surprise.” Sherlock smiled widely, in a way that could only be perceived as fake.

   Molly took it in her stride and walked in with a small smile, her hands holding the strap of her bag while her scarf hung to the ground. She took in the unusually tidy state of the flat and then pulled out the chair at the desk and sat down in it, unwinding her scarf from her neck as she did.

   “I was just passing by and thought I’d say hello.” She smiled gently and let her bag drop to the floor next to the chair.

   “Mrs Hudson called you about an hour ago, didn’t she?” Sherlock’s hands came together to rest under his chin.

   Molly didn’t deny it, there was no point, “Yes, she did. She was worried about you. She tried Greg but he was on a case. So she called me.”

   Sherlock was going to make a comment about being ‘second best’, but held it back. He wasn’t going to take his frustration out on Molly. Not after everything she’d done for him.

   “I’m going to let you voice your concern without interruption, just don’t expect a full reply which answers all of your questions and or concerns.” Sherlock raised his head towards the ceiling before looking over to Molly who had raised an eyebrow at him.

   “How’s John?”

   Sherlock’s head snapped to hers with a fire burning behind his eyes. That was a sharp blow. That was her payback.  Molly’s stoic expression slipped with a short sigh and when she looked at him her face was soft, not pitying like Mycroft’s had been. Understanding.

   “It’s not easy is it?” Molly said with a twist of her lips, “But you can’t… I don’t even know. You can’t… let it take over, because you just end up hurting more.”

   Sherlock let his eyes fall down, not wanting to face her. Her feelings for him had given her the knowledge, or at least some, of how Sherlock was feeling now. Sherlock didn’t like to be reminded of this fact. But she had a point.

   “How – ” He paused, searching for the right words, “How do you stop it?”

   Molly’s shoulders relaxed and her expression grew softer, eyes holding something Sherlock couldn’t comprehend, “You have to let go. Move on.”

   “I don’t want to.”

   “Then you’ll keep feeling like this.”

   Sherlock nibbled on the inside of his lip, hands shaking slightly. Was it worth it? Was moving on, letting go of his feelings for John, getting rid of the pain, worth it? He would no longer feel so conflicted, so devastated about everything about John and everything that wasn’t John. But John was everything. He loved John Watson. He didn’t want to let go of the one person who’d made him feel like he wasn’t a freak for the first time in almost fifteen years.

   “There is one thing you can do. To find out whether or not moving on is the right thing to do.”

   Sherlock’s head peaked up in interest, his eyes begging Molly for anything. For her help again. He was sure he would owe her even more after this.

   “You have to tell him how you feel.”

   “I can’t do that.”

   “You might have to.”

 

* * *

 

   He can hear them talking downstairs in the hallway. Mrs Hudson’s excited tone coupled with the deeper throatier response from John. It’s been almost two weeks since John’s last visit. Molly had visited again. Greg had popped in as well, which had been torturous. Greg lacked subtlety so Sherlock sat there rolling his eyes while Greg tried to cover up the fact Molly had called him. He didn’t have a new case for Sherlock, and he complained that Sherlock had only solved a case two days prior to Greg’s visit. Sherlock offered him tea before asking him to leave. Mycroft was still looking into the whole Moriarty thing and they hadn’t gotten any closer to finding out anything yet. So he was busy in his office.

   He continued playing on his violin, one of Vivaldi’s compositions today. He rather liked Vivaldi. He’d played a little Tchaikovsky earlier, but had quickly given up when it reminded him of a certain someone. So he’d switched to Bach but then gave up on that too. He stood by the window, back to the door, as always, and watched the people on the street.

   He tried not to listen for footsteps on the stairs.

   Tried and failed.

   He stopped playing almost as soon as the footsteps reached the top and turned to put his violin down just as John stepped into the room. He looked worn; bags underneath the eyes, shoulders slumped, foot fall heavy, his shirt wasn’t tucked in properly, laces tied sloppily. Even his normally neatly styled hair was slightly askew, and it was longer. He hadn’t had it cut in a while then. Certainly not for at least a month.

   “You didn’t have to stop on my account.” John stated with a smile which was only meant for Sherlock.

   Sherlock adjusted where the bow lay on the desk, nervous, “No, it’s fine. I’ve been struggling to find the right compositions to play all morning.”

   John put his hands behind his back and wandered in, eyes looking around before he noticed the tray with two cups and saucers on it, a teapot next to them. He pointed at the tray and then looked at Sherlock, “How long has this been here?”

   “Less than ten minutes. I made it as soon as I saw you walk down the street. Thought you might want some tea.” Sherlock confessed stepping forward to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, nearer John.

   John’s smile lit up his whole face, “I would love some.”

   Sherlock went about pouring the tea and grabbing some biscuits from the cupboard, all while John sat in his armchair and read one of the newspapers which had been left on the floor. Sherlock didn’t know what to do. Did he tell him? Molly had said it would help. But what if John got angry? Or it made things awkward between them? What if John decided he couldn’t be friends with Sherlock anymore? Sherlock didn’t know what he’d do without John. He didn’t realise how lonely he had been until John had moved in. It was a horrible thought to think about what it would be like without John now.

   Sherlock handed John his cup before sitting himself opposite John, his teacup in his hands. John put the newspaper to one side and took a sip of his tea.

   “So… how are… things?” Sherlock broached, taking a gulp of his tea as John’s blue eyes bore into him.

   “Hectic.” John answered, “Stressful.”

   Sherlock nodded his head as if he understood while John continued to look at him. He wanted to ask if there was something on his face. But he didn’t.

   “I’m surprised you haven’t deduced it already.”

   “Deduced what?”

   “Me.”

   Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “You don’t always like what I say though.”

   John tilted his head and twisted his lips, as if to say, ‘true’.

   “Me and Mary are fighting. A lot.” John told him to Sherlock’s surprise, “Don’t look like that, if you’re not going to tell me, I’ll tell you.”

   So Sherlock listened.

   “I moved out into the second bedroom. I barely see her now. Usually when I come home from the surgery, but that’s about it. It’s not… working.” John confessed his eyes sliding down to the floor before snapping back up to Sherlock who was sat with his teacup just an inch from his mouth.

   John put his tea down, “You’re not going to ask why? Or tell me why we’re fighting?”

   Sherlock gulped. He didn’t have a plan for this. He wasn’t expecting John to tell him about how his home life was. He was just supposed to make polite conversation, talk about a case or two and if he decided to, tell him he was completely in love with him.

   John scrubbed a hand over his face, “I forgot how much hard work you are sometimes. Mrs Hudson said you’re awfully quiet at the moment. No snappy replies or comments. Nothing. You even bought her some biscuits.”

   “Well, I ate her other pack. I didn’t want her to run out for my morning tea.” Sherlock explained, his teacup still frozen in place.

   John chuckled softly, “I knew it.”

   He cracked a smile at that and finally moved his teacup to take another sip.

   “So you’re not going to deduce what we’re fighting about?”

   Sherlock furrowed his brow, “The… baby?”

   John’s face froze for a moment and then he shook his head slowly, “No. Not the baby. You’re guessing. I want deductions.”

   “I don’t want to.”

   That shocked John.

   “You don’t want to?”

   Sherlock gulped again, his face feeling hot, he didn’t like where this was going. He just wanted to change the topic. The way John was looking at him at him on edge. He nibbled his bottom lip, stopping his hands from shaking as he took another sip from his tea.

   “We were arguing about you.”

   “You look like I just told you I’m going to kill you or something.”

   “Just –ahem… surprised.”

   John sighed and clasped his hands together in front of him, “I told her I couldn’t trust her today. Well, shouted. That was after she shouted at me that I can barely look at her. But it was before I told her I couldn’t forgive her for what she did.”

   His shoulders slumped in defeat and Sherlock’s chest tightened because he wanted to help. He wanted to make things better. He swallowed thickly and managed, “What can I do?”

   John let out a soft scoff, it wasn’t spiteful, just overwhelmed, “Take me back a year and stop me from proposing?”

   Sherlock froze. Did he mean that? Did he wish he’d never married her?

   “Sherlock?”

   His eyes found John’s and he gulped again at the worried look on John’s face.

   “I’m fine.”

   “Could you put the teacup down before you spill it?” 

   Sherlock realised his hands were shaking then. He almost threw it down on the side before he shot up from his chair. John followed.

   “Jesus, I know Mrs Hudson said you were out of sorts but this is ridiculous.” John’s voice was gentle but the alarm there resonated, “Hey… hey! Sherlock, come here.”

   Sherlock hadn’t realised he was pacing until John’s hand wrapped around his bicep. He stopped mid-step and his eyes locked with John’s.

   “I’m sorry.”

   John looked confused, “For what?”

   “Everything. For making you think I was dead for two years and then turning up and expecting everything to be the same. For doing so many stupid things while on cases. For making you worry about me, when there’s really no need.”

   “You’re babbling.” A soft smirk.

   Sherlock wanted to tell him. It was on the tip of his tongue. It was so close to spilling over. But…

   “What’s going to happen between you and Mary?”

   That obviously wasn’t what John expected to hear. His face became serious and tired again but he simply said, “I told her I’m moving out.”

   So they were separating. Did that mean John wanted to live here again? It was logical, his bed was still upstairs. Mrs Hudson probably had some of his old sheets somewhere. He was familiar with the flat, it didn’t cost much, yes it may be further from where he works, but Sherlock could get Mycroft to organise something if John didn’t mind.

   “Do you want help looking for a flat?” Sherlock asked moving quickly to grab his laptop, “I’m sure there’s something close to where you work. Or I’ll ask Mycroft. Either way.”

   “No. No, Sherlock.” John was smiling but it looked like it was holding back something, “I spoke to Mrs Hudson and well, if it’s alright with you…”

   “You want to move back in with me?” Sherlock blurted out, “I mean, into the flat. You want to move back into the flat.”

   A chuckle escaped John, “If that’s alright with you, you wanker.”

   “Of course it’s okay. It’s… yes. Brilliant.” Sherlock could barely contain the smile on his face.

   John stepped towards the door, “I’ve got a bag in the hallway, just going to go grab it.” He smiled widely at Sherlock before trotting down the stairs.

   He couldn’t tell him. Not now. Not now that John was moving back in. It could ruin everything. John would want to move out then. He wouldn’t want to stay if he knew. It would make things awkward, full of forced polite smiles and small talk. Subjects would be avoided just in case it was brought up and Sherlock would have to watch as John slipped away. That would hurt the most.

   “Everything will be fine.” He muttered to himself, “Just fine. Don’t say anything and it will be fine.”

   “Don’t say what?”

   Sherlock spun and gulped, “Oh nothing. Okay, I was working on an experiment in your room. Scorched some of the furniture.” Lies. Lies were better than him knowing the truth.

   John raised a brow at him, “Really? You expect me to believe that?”

   “It’s nothing.”

   “Obviously it’s not.”

   “John, just leave it.”

   “It’s important if you were muttering about it.”

   “John, please.”

   “I’m just worried about you.”

   “Just drop it.”

   “Fine.” John mumbled, removing his jacket finally and hanging it up behind the door, “Do you remember that time I put my jacket on inside out but you didn’t tell me until after we were half way through a case?”

   John chuckled softly but with no reply. Sherlock felt like he was forcing everything. He was trying to keep one thing down and in the process was completely on edge about everything else. Molly was right. It was going to eat him up.

   “John…” Sherlock started and then realised that he had no idea what to say.

   John stood there, expectantly, waiting for Sherlock to finish whatever he was going to say. But as time went by and Sherlock didn’t continue, John’s expression grew apprehensive. Sherlock’s brain was whirring, he was trying to compose a sentence which would ease John into the topic. A sentence which would explain everything to John.   

   “John, it has come to my attention that restraining myself from certain things and withholding information, is an intolerable strain on my mind.”

   John blinked like he’d just spoken another language.

   “It has been advised that to ease this strain, I either let go of the information and make an effort to move forward in life, or I confess the information to the person it concerns.”

   John cleared his throat, “I’m not following.”

   Sherlock stumbled over his words for a moment before, “What I’m trying to convey, is the knowledge that your part… in my life has become… significant.”

   “Sherlock…”

   “I suppose a straightforward way of saying this is, I find myself, in a state a lot like society’s concept of love, with you.”

   John simply stared. He didn’t stop and Sherlock was worried he might do something dramatic and faint. But then he broke out of it and said so calmly and composed,

   “So… what you’re saying, is… you’re in love with me?”

   “Yes.”

   John let out a large breath, “Right.”

   “Bit not good?”

   “No, it’s… good.”

   Sherlock’s brow shot up, “It’s a good thing?”

   John smiled and nodded, “I’d say so.”

   Sherlock stepped back, completely overwhelmed, blinking rapidly,“W-Why?”

   “Well, isn’t it a good thing when you find out someone loves you back?” John’s smile didn’t falter, it just seemed to grow.

   Sherlock’s chest constricted pleasantly, his mind swimming as he processed what John was telling him. 

   “So… you’re telling me… you…”

   “Love you. Yes.”

   “You love me.”

   “I think I said that.”

   “You’re in love with me.”

   “I think that was implied.” John chuckled as he watched Sherlock take it in.

   “Even though I’ve hurt you and am reckless and do stupid and insensitive things sometimes?”

   “You know I enjoy the recklessness… sometimes.” John stepped forward, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s.

   “You’re attracted to me.” Sherlock stated, although it sounded more like a question in his mind.

   “Isn’t it obvious enough for you?” John was right in front of him now, head tilted up to keep eye contact.

   Sherlock shook his head and watched as John licked his lips slowly, a hand rising to rest on Sherlock’s hip. His heart stuttered at the touch, his whole body flushing as John’s eyes flickered to his lips and back again. John Watson was in love with him. John Watson was attracted to him.

   “Do you remember last March?” John asked quietly, his voice slightly husky, “In the alley, after you’d sprained your wrist?”

   Sherlock nodded slightly, not wanting to disturb the moment. How could he forget? It was the one time Sherlock had ever come close to thinking John might feel something similar to his feelings. 

   “There’s something I should have done then that I didn’t.”

   Then John pressed up onto his toes and touched his lips to Sherlock’s.

   Sherlock froze. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He was in denial. John moved his lips slightly against Sherlock’s and then pressed a little firmer, his hand gripping Sherlock’s hip tighter. Everything was spinning, it was spinning and it was hot, so hot and Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t believe.

   Sherlock pulled away gently, “You love me.”

   John smiling adoringly at him and brought his hand up to rest on Sherlock’s neck, “I love you.”

   The grin that broke out on Sherlock’s face was one John had never seen, one nobody had ever seen. He dived down and captured John’s mouth with his own, lips sliding passionately over the others as they clung to each other. John’s hands tugging on Sherlock’s curls as Sherlock pressed his hands into John’s back, urging his body forward. His blood was pumping, his body so warm, he was elated. He was excited and happy. So happy. He didn’t think he’d ever been this happy before. He held John as tight as he could, kissing him with every inch of the love and adoration he held for the wonderful man who returned his affections.

   Sherlock pulled away eventually, holding a breathless and flushed John as they smiled warmly at each other.

   “Shall I ask Mrs Hudson where the extra sheets are for your bed?” Sherlock asked, realising he needed to set everything up for John.

   John smirked and moved away, tugging on Sherlock’s hand as he started backwards towards the kitchen, “I don’t think we need that extra bedroom anymore. Do you?”

   Sherlock beamed at John and followed with a fluttering in his chest, “No, we definitely don’t.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed that! 
> 
> You will have to wait a little for another Johnlock fic from me. This one has worn me down.
> 
> Comments are appreciated :)


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